


the eyes of pilots

by noisymunk



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Meet-Cute, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:55:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26591008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noisymunk/pseuds/noisymunk
Summary: a couple of pilots walk into the bar where zorii is bored and drinking
Relationships: Zorii Bliss/Poe Dameron/Din Djarin
Kudos: 10





	the eyes of pilots

zorii bliss was tired of being cold. Tired of waiting in dark alleys for perpetually tardy spice dealers, and so fucking tired of the First Order’s bureaucratic bullshit. At least the drinks were cheap in The Rusty Blaster, and the heat radiating out of the old sulfur lamps took the teeth out of the chill. Condensation dripped from the glass she raised to her lips, dark drops staining her slacks. Absently brushing at the dampness on her thigh she glanced down at the small shoulder bag hanging from the hook under the bar. A scuffed leather flight bag, unassuming and radio shielded, with 15,000 in credits and rock solid stolen imperial credentials sewn into the lining. A wry smile twisted the corner of her mouth, maybe she could take some time, get a flight to Canto Bight. Stretch her toes in the sand and drink something fancy. Get a massage...maybe...the smile faded. “Oh...no fuckin’ way” 

Dangling from the buckle on the bag’s flap was a small chunk of circuit board with two antenna protruding from the bottom edge. The ignorant, which was mostly everyone in this backwater village, would only see a hunk of junk, a bit of garbage ornamenting the go-bag of a space rat. Bliss was no backwater dumb-ass. 30 years ago these were the tracking fobs that bounty hunters used to chase their prey from one end of the galaxy to the other. The tag had been lifted off the corpse of a rather unfortunate Imperial heavyweight. Once, during a period of very poor decision making she had it scanned by a local droid chopper on the syndicate’s payroll. The ozone-jockey told her who the tag was for, and it cost her 6 months salary and a camtono of spice to convince him to forget. The tag was blinking. An angry red LED that would’ve told any bounty hunter in the system that a payday was a jump away winked at her from the shadows. She spun the bag on the hook, hiding the fob against the bar. “What the fuck, that’s impossible, that droid mangler said he had to be long dead.” Her mind spun, the buzz from the gin making her thoughts run together. “I’m no hunter, finish the drink and slip out the back. But, this kind of information would be worth a lot to the right buyer. No! No, too many questions about how you got the fob. Pause. Breathe. Look around...no one here is wearing a full face helmet made of goddamned beskar. You’re just bored and it’s old tech glitching out.” zorii took another sip from her glass and weighed her options. “Maybe just have another gin rakka and wait it out” she thought. “At least we aren’t bored anymore.”

The door of the Blaster banged open, two more space rats stumbling in out of the cold. “Come in, sit down, close the fuckin’ door” barked the barkeep. The taller of the two men called out “Alright alright, just tryin’ to air the stink out of this dive. And rice wine for me, azure whiskey for my friend and whatever horrible meat you got on the grill in the back.” Self-assured. Cocky. Familiar. 

“That’s Poe fucking Dameron’s voice” zorii hissed to herself. The fucking resistance. Word had been percolating on the street that they were sniffing around Kijimi asking questions, but she never thought she’d see Poe again. In HER bar. With...well who was he with? Be easy. Sly. He won’t notice you right away, he’s a self-important prig who left to go fly tiny planes for the stupid…no no. Easy.

“Sorry, we’ll grab a booth if that’s alright” the other man, apologizing for Poe like everyone always did. His voice had the tell-tale rasp of long haul space travel, breathing stale recirculated air for weeks at a time really did a number on the throat. She risked a glance as they slid into the booth. Poe was still Poe. Goddamn him, the most fruitless fight in the universe couldn’t wipe the charm from that brow. His friend though...older. Much older. Hair threaded with silver, but he moved into the room like he’d been in a hundred different bars in as many planets and expected a fight at the end of every night. The stranger caught her eyes with a glance as he surveyed the other drunks and night cruisers populating the Blaster before sliding into the booth next to Poe (NEXT to Poe...easy...be cool) . He was playing it just like her. Cool. Easy. Sly. But they were pilot’s eyes. Soft and full of starlight and wide enough to take in the curve of planets, moons...suns…  
Sly.  
Shit.  
He favored his right arm getting into the booth, didn’t he? Did he? 

You lift a finger and cock an eyebrow at the barkeep, the rattle of ice in a drink shaker filling the room. 

The conversation in the bar returns to its usual low rumble of nonsense and bluster and the couple of flyboys in the booth speak closely and laugh as their grilled meat and drinks arrive. 

The old pilot gestures to the waitress, and murmurs a question. She, guardedly, answers and glances to the barkeep. The barkeep taps a finger in my direction. Oh well, I can grit my teeth and shoot the shit with Poe fucking Dameron and whatever new cockpit warmer he’s running around with. Maybe I can con him into running some spice, for old time’s sake. But then I’m too late already, blame the gin. “Hey Poe, who’s that over in the corner trying not to look at you?” the old space-fox says in a stage-whisper clearly meant for my own rapidly blushing ears. 

“OH SHIT it’s Miss Bliss! It’s been ages! Come over here and meet my friend!” Oh but I could kill him though. “Poe Dameron, get the hell out of town. I’m serious!” I say, smiling and nodding at the barkeep. I flip the blinking fob into a pocket on the outside of my flight bag as I grab it off the hook and slip a 50 credit chip next to my unfinished drink. I mutter to the hovering barkeep “Bring a beer over to me, that’s enough gin for tonight”.

Sliding into the booth across from the two Poe begins introducing me to his friend. Our life story. Some bullshit about helping them with a job. “Din something” his name, mercenary pilot, hidden planet. I can’t stop thinking about how Din is holding his whiskey with his left hand. The visible scarring on his right forearm. Some kind of horrible injury, an animal bite, teeth like a blurrg. 

And is that medallion hanging from his neck made of beskar? 

And the fob was still blinking in the pocket of of the old flight bag.

____________________


End file.
